Beware the Frozen Heart
by DarowdrynofArcadia
Summary: The Dark Lord came for him that night, just as he was supposed to, but there was something about Harry that wasn't right. What happens when a spell meant to kill meets a child born of an ancient and forgotten race protected by the love of a woman who believes she is its mother? Creature!Harry, definite signs of flurries, short-sighted but good Dumbledore.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: I am sure those of you who have found my Mass Effect story will understand when I say that I am better at writing creatures and non-humans than I am normal humany-wumany people. Hence this story coming into existence because of all of the hyper-powerful Harry fics with him having control of fire, lightning, earth, spirit, mind, triple animagus with a magical form, weapon master(Exception being Harry Crow by robst, weapon master makes sense there), and whatever else there is. I wanted to be able to do a story where his blood is the reason for his abilities, but not because he is heir to all the houses ever.**

 **That said, Harry Potter and all characters associated with the vast canonical world do not belong to me, only the play I have them act for you is mine. J.K. Rowling owns the rest, along with a piece of our souls for the childhood she gave us.**

In the present segments of this chapter, _italics_ are for French.

* * *

 _October 31, 1981_

 _I sneer in satisfaction as I materialize out of the darkness in the square or Godric's Hollow. This quaint little town has no idea of what is coming, and for once neither do the people I have come to see. My most loyal spy, Severus Snape, has informed me of a prophecy stating that the one with the power to defeat me would be born as the seventh months dies, and that only two children were born to fit that profile. That their parents took them into hiding soon after seals their fate as it confirms that Albus believes in this prophecy and that one of these children will be the one to grow into that threat. It has taken me this long, but now I have found the one I believe has the better chance of being... problematic._

 _The Potter brat. A child born to Lily Jean Potter nee Evans and James Nathaniel Potter, two magicals who have caused me no end of problems. James is perhaps the best auror in the field, better in my opinion than even his mentor, Alastor Moody, and is dangerous for his talent with Transfiguration. I actually began using it in combat myself after I witnessed how effectively he wields it, and yet in that area he still outclasses me, the great Lord Voldemort. Lily on the other hand, while not a front lines fighter, is the foremost Charms Mistress alive and has created several spells for the Light that have turned the tide against my Death Eaters more than once. Never lethal, but always tactically used to great effect._

 _I step forward and over line of the wards surrounding the cottage and there it is, exactly where Wormtail said it would be. It is with glee that I silently cast an overpowered bombarda to rip it from the hinges, startling the tall dark-haired man just inside the parlor. For a moment he stands frozen in fear, then his wand is in his hand in that way that only experienced aurors are capable of accomplishing and he is transfiguring the walls and the furniture even as he bellows, "It's him! Run Lily, take Harry and run!" I attempt to banish his creations but as always, they are many and the spells are strong, with his unique brand of dueling woven through it all. I feel the ripping of a wolf clamping onto my calf and the sharp impact of a large elk colliding with my other side and I decide that I have had enough of the games, a spell I learned from my journeys through Asia rippling out as I hiss the incantation in Parseltongue. With a whispered spell I jab my wand at Potter and watch in satisfaction as he is halted momentarily by agony before his ribcage collapses and he falls to the floor with unseeing eyes._

 _A hasty pair of spells to stop the bleeding caused by his conjurations and I am on my feet once more, slowly stepping up the stairs with enough weight to make sure Lily knows I am coming for her son. The nursery is just in front of me once I reach the landing, and she has not even bothered to close the door. Instead she kneels in front of her whelp cooing and telling him that everything will be alright. She does not even look at me._

 _"Move aside, girl. I am not here for you, just the boy. Move aside and I shall let you live." She does not turn at my soft words, though I know she heard them. Instead she speaks just as softly and is as direct, "You'll have to kill me, you bastard. I will never stop defending him." I sigh at the foolish loss of talent that tonight has caused, but I have no regrets as I cast a Bubble Head Charm filled with muggle gas and leave her to convulse and die on the floor._

 _At last it is down to us, the child and I. I look at him, no more than a drooling thing barely a year old, and I see so much of the man and woman I killed tonight. He is dark of hair with his mother's green eyes, eyes that seem to stare into me and through me with far more intelligence than they should, and I feel that I truly have made the correct choice in killing this one now, before the prophecy can take hold. It is as I raise my wand to end this child that it happens, and just for a moment those green eyes fade into a pale and icy blue that sets a chill in my veins, and that fear fuels me into hating this child more than Albus, for even Albus has never made me feel terror that powerful. I cast with all of that darkness and the foul green light of the Killing Curse streaks through the short distance separating us, and it all goes wrong._

 _The child's skin pales and those eyes fade more until they are fields of white, his body absorbing the spell and holding it before with a wail of infantile emotion he releases it back upon me and I can feel my soul ripped from the tether that holds it. I know nothing more, nothing but pain, though I console myself with the thought that if I am in pain, then my preparations worked._

* * *

 _July 30, 1988_

Vernon and Petunia Dursley strut through the brightly lit interior of Harrod's in London, their baby boy happily and loudly pointing to everything with the general exclamation being "I want that!" as they completely ignore the small, thin boy following them with their shopping loading down his frame. This is life as is always normal for one Harry James Potter, who is one day away from his eighth birthday and yet feels no excitement for it. He has never once had a birthday party, or been given a present, or indeed been given anything at all except beatings and half-eaten table scraps. What clothing he has, his cousin has either outgrown or no longer wants, leaving him with the rattiest and shabbiest of them while anything actually fit to be worn is donated to the poor. Of course the Dursleys make sure people see them donating to the less fortunate, just as they make sure that their dark-haired freak of a nephew is rarely if ever seen outside of their perfect little home in Little Whinging.

He withholds a sigh, cognizant of the fact that if he let it slip out, he would be beaten severely upon returning to the house and then locked in his cupboard, likely without meals. The reason would of course be his 'uppity, ungrateful attitude and poor behavior,' the same old line that they have always used to justify his ill treatment at their hands.

As his 'family' continues to walk ahead, his attention is drawn to a peculiar and rare sight for him: a pretty girl. It isn't that he is not used to seeing other people, as he does go to primary school, nor is it that all of the girls he sees in his classes are ugly. What makes this occasion different is the fact that this girl is startlingly pale in color, from her silvery blonde hair and light cerulean eyes to her creamy skin and impeccably dilute gray outfit. To make her more strange to him, she is speaking to a woman who is obviously her mother in rapid French(at least he assumes it's French, he has never actually heard any language but his own but it sounds like it might cause an accentuation of English that his uncle likes to make fun of).

There is something else about the girl and her mother, almost like a presence pressing against the edges of his mind, but he cannot figure out what it is. The girl turns her head and catches him staring at her, and at first her gaze turns cold, near angry even, but when that expression brings to mind the winter wind and causes Harry to smile, her gaze softens again and she looks confused.

~~/~~

Fleur is out shopping with her mother and father, Alain and Eveline Delacour, in the middle of London. This is her first time ever being away from France at all, which is somewhat surprising considering that her father is the the Deputy Minister to the French Ministry of Magic, yet she cannot help feeling almost disgusted with the English, even the _vulgaire_ of this country seeming uncouth and uncultured.

Like that family over there, the elder male fat and round in a way she has never seen in her home country, face adorned with a mustache that makes him resemble a walrus. He obviously has delusions of importance if his tailored suit is any indication. The woman at his side could only be his wife, a tall and bony woman with a long, sharp face that brings to mind her old mare in the countryside in the Alps. The string of pearls around her neck looks like it cost more than her horrid designer dress and shoes, and the look on her face makes it clear that she believes herself better than anyone around her. Even their child thinks himself important, strutting about as if he owns the place, apparently attempting to make that a reality by acquiring everything in the store.

She almost misses the last member of their party until she feels a gaze on her. Flicking her eyes to the right, she wonders at first if she was wrong about them being _vulgaire_ as they appear to have a house elf carrying their shopping. Then she finds the greenest pair of eyes she's ever seen staring into hers, eyes only a human could have as they are much too small for an elf. Anger and disgust rises like a tide within her, washing away rationality as she pulls on her frigid mask in an attempt to make the boy flinch and stop looking at her. The result however is very different. The boy _smiles_ , and more than that, his eyes change color from green to a pale and icy blue that makes her think of frozen lakes, and in her confusion she takes a closer look at him.

His face is slightly discolored, likely healing a bruise, but the way the boy moves makes her wonder if the face is his only injury. There appears to be scarring around his... Fleur gasps as she gazes at his face, recognizing the scar pattern around his left eye as the supposed mark left on Harry Potter the night Voldemort disappeared. _"Papa! Papa! Look at this boy!_ _"_ she cries, one delicate finger pointing at the small person in front of her who is no longer smiling and instead looks frightened. Her father wanders over to see what her cry was about, words on the tip of his tongue, _"What is it my flower, what do you- By Morgana!"_ Alain whips out his wand and does a quick scan of the boy, though the results confuse him more than he believed possible.

With great trepidation, he steps forward and goes to one knee to address the boy who looks more than frightened, but terrified and almost... resigned, as if he believes he is about to be hit. " _Excusez-moi,_ but is your name 'Arry Potter by any chance?" he asks, keeping his hands flat and his voice calm. The boy does not speak, but after a moment nods his head minutely. Alain reaches out to brush the hair away from Harry's face, attempting to get a closer look at the bruising, only to notice that the air close to the boy is significantly colder than the ambient temperature even a few inches away from him. _"What in Merlin's name...? Perhaps my spell was correct after all..."_

Standing straight with determination on his face and steel in his voice, he clips out, "Where is your family, Mister Potter? I believe I have some... _business_ to discuss wiz them." Curiosity and something akin to hope have replaced the fear on his face and he nods in the direction of the fattest man Alain has ever seen. He notices that those meaty hands have healing scrapes and slight bruising, as do the hands of his whale of a son, confirming that Harry Potter, hero of the wizarding world, The-Boy-Who-Lived, has been abused recently, and likely for a long time. "And what is zat _cochon's_ name?" The light of hope dancing in the eyes of the lad before him tests his resolve not to hex the abusive waste into jelly as he hears the soft reply, "Vernon Dursley. My uncle's name is Vernon Dursley."

~~/~~

Harry cannot believe what is happening. First a girl points at him and yells something to her father, then when the man himself comes over, not only does Harry not get in trouble for looking at his daughter but the man seems to care about his health. A total stranger seems almost worried about him, and to complicate matters, he is going to go speak to the only relatives that Harry has ever known and leaving him with the pale princess who is looking at him almost reverently. Time passes awkwardly and silently for several minutes while he watches a man he doesn't even know confront his uncle about the bruises that must still be visible on his face.

He jumps when the girl touches his face gently, her voice just as soft as her father's was as she murmurs, "My name eez Fleur. I already know your name, but that eez not so important I am theenkeeng. Do not worry 'Arry, Papa weel take care of zis." Her touch burns, almost reminding him of standing close to a fire with its inviting and dangerous warmth. They remain in silence now, catching the odd word here and there from Harry's uncle and Fleur's father, at least until Vernon bellows out in the middle of the store, "Well if he means so much to you freaks, then have him! Take him away, we never wanted the ungrateful little shit anyway!" Alain says nothing, but he draws that length of wood again and wields it like a weapon, three quick twists changing all three of the Dursley family into more fitting forms. With that done, he turns back to the boy and barks out, "Drop zeir shopping, you will not need it. Come 'Arry, we are going away from here. You are going to my personal 'ealer in France, then you are coming home wiz my family. We will go to ze goblins as soon as you are 'ealed and take care of your accounts, as well as tell you of your inheritance. I think there is much you do not know."

Without another word, he takes hold of Harry's shoulder while his wife takes hold of her daughter, and they are gone.

* * *

 _Three years later..._

 _"Harry, wake up! It's your birthday, you have presents!"_ A heavy impact on his mattress flings the startled boy several inches into the air before he lands on the giggling source of the disturbance, a dark blush creeping up his face when he realizes that his cheek is pressing down on a soft curve of flesh, a heartbeat sounding just under his ear. Though he is used to this form of wake-up call, it still has not changed the fact that though he may be immune to a Veela's allure, he is not immune to their bodies. That he has been living with this particular Veela and her family for three years does nothing to diminish the embarrassment of landing on the ample chest of a fourteen year old. _"And how is my favorite freak today, hmm?"_

 _"A lot better when you don't remind me that anyone ever called me that, thanks."_ Fleur, for her part, acts shocked at this reaction, drawing a smile out of the lad laying on top of her, the perfect white of his smile doing things to her insides. In the three years since his first visit to the goblins and the undoing of many glamours and subtle compulsions, not to mention proper food, Harry has changed quite a bit. Where once he was a scrawny and small boy with black hair and startlingly emerald eyes, he is now fairly tall for eleven years old and has a more filled out frame, in so much as he looks healthy and not starved. His hair has gotten somehow even darker black than it was, and his eyes show for the truth of his heritage, the glamour that kept them green with poor vision the first to go. Now they are the same icy blue that Fleur noticed that far gone day in Harrod's, and they seem to bring the distinctive snowflake scar to life around his left eye.

 _"I can't help it Harry, it's just nice to know that I have company who can stand to be around me without losing the ability to speak properly."_ The look in the beautiful buxom blonde's eyes is enough to melt Harry's heart, and in an effort to cheer her up, he brushes her silvery curtain of hair behind her ear, a delicate comb of ice sliding through it to hold in place. Though it is something he is capable of with fair ease, it still drains him a bit more than he would like to make something so fine and detailed, and grumbles about his control needing to be better escape his lips.

Fleur knows how insecure Harry remains about the truth of his blood, and the fact that he has once again used his gifts to make her happy warms her heart and slowly a cheery grin molds her lips. _"Thank you, Blizzard. You will never know how much it means to me for you to create all these little things you give me."_ With a small peck on the cheek, she changes the subject for him, hoping he will relax and finally open his gifts, hoping more that he will like what she found for him. _"So, have you decided where you will accept to go? I know that Madame Maxime would welcome you at Beauxbatons, it would be a definite coup for her."_

Harry grins and silently unwraps his first gift, a demiguise leather wand holster from Alain. Though demiguise hair is used to manufacture invisibility cloaks, Harry knows from his lessons that leather from the same animal, if given willingly to a crafter it trusts to heal it properly, will never allow the contents to be summoned. In essence, it is loyal to only one person, the first person to touch it, and is never handled without gloves until received by the intended owner.

His clear eyes dance as they meet the Veela's gaze, impatience mounting as the Boy-Who-Lived still does not answer her. Instead, he opens the gift from Eveline and Gabrielle, the little girl only six years old and so happy to be included in the gift giving for Harry. Inside the package there are two journals, each with a pair of sapphires set in the leather spine, one a pale cream and the other a dark rusty brown. A soft gasp escapes from the pair in tandem as they recognize the set from their last shopping trip into Paris, a linked set meant to send messages back and forth between them. Harry looks up with a grin to see a faint blush dusting Fleur's face, the Chosen One chuckling as his friend grumbles to herself about suggestive mothers.

The last package sitting in his lap, Harry finally answers the beautiful girl with him. _"If a Hogwarts letter finds me, I think I will go for at least my first year, as a tribute to Lily and James. They would have wanted their son to go there, and though I am not that child, I bear their last name to honor their sacrifice. It seems fitting. Also, I would like a chance to observe for myself the professors and students, perhaps make some friends and learn the truth of how the Potters came to die as they did, and why I was left with Lily's sister."_

Fleur sighs, knowing he would say something like that, and gestures for him to open the small package in his hands. Pale fingers deftly unwrap her perfect paper and flick open the slender case, revealing the contents to a smiling boy. Harry strokes the golden band he wears on his right hand, the engraving a muggle imagining of elvish, and quotes from memory, _"I asked for one hair from her golden head. She gave me three."_ Turning to look into the eyes he gets lost in so much, he gently inquires, _"Is this for my wand? I know Alain wanted to have mine made custom for me today."_ Unable to answer, Fleur simply nods.

* * *

Harry is standing in _La Rose Bleue_ on _La Rue de la Magie_ in Paris, Madame Francine Blanc measuring him from the top of his head to the bottoms of his feet.

 _"And which arm is your wand arm?"_

 _"Well, I'm right handed, so I guess that one."_

 _"Is there anything specific you wish to use?"_

 _"Only this."_ Harry pulls out the slender wooden case and flips the lid, revealing the faintly glowing strands of Fleur's hair.

 _"Oh my..."_ A quick and shrewd look passes between Harry and the Veela who donated his hairs, _"Willingly given too, this should be interesting. However, as you are not Veela yourself, you will need a secondary core to stabilize it and bind it to your magic. Come, come."_

Madame Blanc waves to her case and speaks with a professional tone, _"Most wandmakers have you choose your wood first, and normally so would I, but since you came in with a part of your core already, I will need you to divine the rest of it while holding those hairs before he get into your wood. Please, close your eyes, take hold of Miss Delacour's hairs, and reach out with your magic. You should find one that calls out to you, twining to the hair."_

Harry does as he is bidden, and his eyes slide closed with his hand stretched out in front of him, slowly calling up his magic. Madame Blanc gasps when she sees the effect that it always has on him, pale eyes glowing and whiting out between the cracks of his eyelids and a faint mist falling from his skin. It isn't until his hand passes over the case that she sees it is not mist but frost that falls from him, riming the containers holding the cores. It seems to take forever, at least to Harry, but eventually something calls out to him and his fingers come to rest on another slender box, marked with a 'Y' and carved of some wood very nearly white.

The wandcrafter reaches out reverently and takes the case, whispering to Harry, _"To say that I am astounded would be putting it lightly Mister Potter. I have hoped to find someone who would be drawn to yeti hair, if only to prove it possible, but I must admit that even I never believed it would actually happen. This hair came from a rather large specimen I encountered in the mountains just outside of Prague in winter. He must have been about three-hundred seventy kilograms, and white as the driven snow. It will serve you well I think. Let us find your wood."_

Harry steps over to her selection of blocks and reaches out again, a heavy and old-seeming wood speaking to him almost immediately. Once again, Madame Blanc is astonished, yet this time she seems exuberant as well. _"I think we can expect great things from you Mister Potter, yes great things! Oak is a wood said to aid the wielder in their intuitive use of magic, something that very few are ever able to take advantage of fully. Merlin himself was rumored to use a staff carved from an oak tree, and there have been spellcrafters through the ages that have also had oak wands. This wand will be very attuned to you and your magic, I cannot wait to see what becomes of it, and of you!"_

An hour later, Harry is returning home with a brand new wand.

* * *

 **A/N:** Okay, so getting through the beginning of his story is causing a couple issues for me, but that was just this first chapter. I hope that I can make the next chapter flow better, and any after that as well. I would dearly love to have this story evolve as it should and be a free spirit. ^_^ Please read and review!


	2. Chapter 2

_**A/N:**_ Thank you for what interest you have shown in this! I can't really explain where this story is coming from, just that it is coming and I want to do it justice, do it right. Also, I do intend to have some fun with certain people. I'm sure you'll see what I mean.

JohnyS: Yes this is a Harry/Fleur fic, that is what those brackets in the description mean. Not to mention, Harry will have more understanding of her disdain for humans and their prejudices because he will see them more clearly, and maybe experience some of them himself, though that I haven't decided yet.

As of yet, I do not own any part of Harry Potter, only the race that I have used for Mr. Potter. I wish that Jo would listen to me and give me full control of her world, but sadly she does not believe that I would be able to make it even bigger than it currently is. Not to mention she is worried about my sanity, at least that was the impression I got from her when I asked.

* * *

 _September 1, 1991_

King's Cross Station, a place Harry never truly believed he'd visit. His future after being saved by the Delacours was always up in the air, the school he was to attend never entering the picture as a certainty until this summer, and now that he has made his choice he finds himself standing in the middle of London in a place that holds so much meaning for so many. To him however, the only meaning it holds is a tiny piece of history for those believed to be his parents, and the separation from the family that he has come to know as his own over the last three years.

Head held high, the dark haired boy walks through the hidden arch behind the barrier, tugging the lapels of his well-fitting suit in nervous anticipation of the explosion of noise on the other side. The moment the muggle world is left behind, the general quiet and directed bustle of the station is left behind and exchanged for violent colors, the raucous jumble of owl and cat voices, and disjointed bits of laughing conversation mixed with sneering pureblood condescension. The chaos of the platform is disconcerting to him, even with his preparation for it and the fact that he was already aware that British magical society puts less stock on organization than the French do.

He is still standing in place just inside the arch when he receives a gentle yet insistent push from behind, forcing him to step forward or risk falling into the crowd as Eveline glides through the illusory wall, Gabriel very nearly attached to her hip. The tall eleven year old swipes his dark hair from his eyes and turns to them with a smile that is only a tiny bit strained. _"Is it too late to go back home and join Beauxbatons?"_ he asks without any real hope, already turning back to the press of people and preparing to embark on a so-called 'adventure'. The soft and musical voice of the Veela behind him replies with hidden laughter, _"Yes Harry, it is too late to go to Beauxbatons. Their term started a week ago, remember? Otherwise I doubt you could have kept Fleur from being here, it was difficult enough to convince her that letting you go to a different school was in any way a good idea."_

The Boy-Who-Lived gives a heavy sigh and acquiesces, _"I was afraid of that. Oh well. I can be comfortable in the knowledge that Hogwarts is in no way ready for me, both as a member of society trained by some of the best in Europe, and as the first of my kind to be seen in over a century."_ He tries to step through the throng to enter and claim a compartment on the scarlet train, a color choice he believes to be garish and maudlin, when he is almost grounded with the impact of a tiny sobbing blonde cannonball. _"H-Harry, I don't want you to go! What if you meet someone better than us, what if you never come home? What if-what if they don't let you come home? What if you meet someone prettier than Fleur?"_ For a moment she is silent, then she mumbles into his chest words that he would have missed if his hearing wasn't a bit better than human, _"What if you leave us? I don't want you to leave us."_

Hearty and soft, his chuckles disarms the sweet little girl attaching herself to his waist and he kneels down to look her in the eye, icy orbs holding sapphires with the intensity and affection in them, _"I will not leave you, Gabby. I am coming back, I will make sure of that. Nothing in this world will keep me from returning to France as often as I am able, and that means at Christmas too. You are my family now, you saved me, and you know that there is no way I could ever leave family behind. I was left behind and forgotten once, I will never force someone else to experience that."_

He stands tall and resolute as he regains his feet, one hand caressing the box in his pocket, reminding himself that this is real and he is here. The feel of his shrunken trunk is enough to reassure him of what he is doing, and in this moment that is all that matters. Eveline breezes forward and takes his free hand in hers, a half-hidden emotion in her gaze. _"Be careful this year Harry. We will see you when you come home, now go. Go before I change my mind, and remember to be better than they expect, be who you truly are."_ No more words need to be said and she gives him another gentle shove, her eyes swimming with an emotion he half-remembers seeing and her spine straighter and more rigid than it ever has been before.

Purpose driving him and pride controlling his actions, Harry strides forward and climbs into the train, originally preparing to seek out a quiet compartment. That plan is shot to hell the moment he passes through the door and is greeted by a muted quiet, pulling his armor away just a bit as he casts his gaze around. The car he finds himself in is very different from what he expected to see based on the outside of the train, and it appeals to him in a way that he did not hope to experience.

The decor is grand and actually quite understated, with the gas lamps held up by elegant and simple silver sconces attached unobtrusively to the dark green walls. The benches bear the same taste, dark green cushions trimmed in silver thread, the dark wood well-carved and appearing comfortable. Even the windows are different than he assumes the rest of the train would be, stained glass set in a coat of arms he recognizes from Alain's education about this school. The Boy-Who-Lived turns to observe those in the car already and is unsurprised to see the same silver and green on the robes of the older students.

The somewhat exhaustive political training that Alain forced him to undergo kicks into gear and for the first time he does not resent those hours spent. On the far end of the car in what is obviously a place of honor, a boy with dark hair and calculating brown eyes verging on black smirks at him, light glinting off of a small silver badge. It is a little difficult to observe the details from this distance, even for Harry, but the fact that the letters 'HB' take up almost the entire pin tells him that this must be this year's Head Boy. The girl with dirty blonde hair beside him has no such badge, and yet the posture of those around her and the Head Boy make it clear that she still holds authority in the House, likely through a relationship with him.

At the table with them sit another pair of girls, both of whom are wearing badges with a 'P' on them that marks them as prefects, almost the entire power base of Slytherin House sitting before him, their interest purely seeming to be on who he is. With a shrug, he steps further into the compartment and scans for others he can put a name to, prominent British families running through his head as he searches for those who are reported to be in his year group. Immediately he recognizes Blaise Zabini, having met him a few times before at Ministerial events on the continent and commiserated on being forced to attend when they could be doing literally anything more interesting. A reserved nod is given and answered, then he continues to assess.

There are only two more students he can even guess at the identities of, though he is aware that there are a few more that are meant to be in his year that have a familial history of being in the Serpent's Pit. The black-haired beauty with the sea-foam green eyes and the immobile mask fits the description of the heir to the Greengrass family, notoriously a Grey and rather neutral house among British society, and yet also one of the most influential votes in the Wizengamot. The family itself is moderately well-known to present the front of being cold and aloof, their masks hiding a sharp and vicious tongue backed by a quick mind. This girl seems to be no different, her eyes assessing him as he does the same to her before moving on. The blonde-haired boy with the ugly sneer and the 'I'm-better-than-you' attitude really could only be the Malfoy scion.

His father was rumored to be one of Lord Voldemort's closest advisors and his major financial backer, yet after the war ended he claimed to have been under the influence of the Imperius Curse and was given a ministerial pardon. The not-Potter was shown a photograph of Lucius Malfoy and warned specifically about him due to the rumors that still surround him in the rest of European society as well as the not-so-hidden control he has over the current minister via bribery. This boy who obviously believes himself better than the rest of them looks almost exactly like him.

Harry is also aware that he is meant to be attending with the heir to the Davis fortune and business, said to be a girl, along with the daughters of the Parkinson and Bulstrode families, both of whom are supposed to be moderately wealthy and consistent supporters of the Malfoy bid on whatever goes through the Wizengamot. With no clues to lead him towards identifying any of those three, the dark-haired preteen pulls his trunk from his pocket and gives a small pulse of his Wild magic to trigger the re-sizing charm Alain had specifically enchanted into it for ease of transport. As he is lifting it into the overhead, a self-assured and disdainful voice calls from behind him, "So the rumors are true then, Harry Potter has come to Hogwarts." A deep sigh tumbling from his lips, he turns to the source of the disturbance and simply raises an eyebrow, waiting for the blond imbecile to continue, filing away his correct assumption with very little satisfaction. "I'm Malfoy, Draco Malfoy. You'll want to be careful who you associate with, don't want to go making friends with the _wrong_ sort. I can help you there." the boy drawls, thrusting his hand out at the end of his self-aggrandizing speech.

Harry lets it hang there for a moment, then just before he can be seen as rude reaches out and clasps it briefly. "Thank you... Draco, was it? I think I will be just fine without becoming one of your lackeys. You see, I know all about your family, I'm even distantly related to you. My grandmother was Dorea Potter nee Black, but I'm sure you knew that. After all, your mother is her niece, Narcissa Malfoy nee Black, sister to Belatrix Lestrange nee Black and Andromeda Tonks nee Black. I hope for your sake that the rumors about your mother are true and she never took the Mark, it is said to taint the soul of whomever bears it."

Dropping the Malfoy Scion's hand, he continues with the smallest hint of condescension in his lightly accented voice, "Your father however I know more of. I know that he has the ear of the minister, and that his opinion carries so much weight because of the money that he greases Minister Fudge's palms with. Money that comes from his perfectly legitimate businesses, though many of them are reported to be covers for a less than entirely legal monopoly on the trafficking of Dark artifacts, books, and even... shall we say, bought souls? He is a politically powerful man, but you are an eleven year old. You do not have his capitol, so I think I shall have to manage without your assistance." With that he turns away from the stunned brat and strides forward to take a seat across from the now truly frigid mask of the green-eyed girl.

With a small smile that does not reach his eyes, the dark preteen holds out his hand in offering and formally declares, "I am Harry Potter, and it is my very great pleasure to meet you miss...?" He leaves his words hanging, inviting her to introduce herself or not, though it is obvious to all watching that he is aware of how a refusal to answer his inquiry would be perceived. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the Head Boy nodding at him in approval, a slightly less acerbic sneer on his face as he watches the new player. His hand is shaken far more quickly than he himself had done for Malfoy, her voice piping up pleasantly, "Greengrass. I am Daphne Greengrass, and something tells me you already knew that and were simply being polite. That is very kind of you Potter, as now I find myself wondering what else you know."

They share a guarded chuckle at that before she waves to indicate the elfin-faced girl with the mousey brown hair sitting beside her. "This is Tracey Davis, the only friend I have ever had growing up and a truer one than I deserve." It is with a more open and roguish grin that Harry takes the girl's offered hand and brushes a faint kiss across her knuckles, almost purring, "It is a pleasure to meet you. I know of your family but I was unsure if the rumors were true." Fear seems to flit through her eyes as she inquires what rumors he could mean, but he puts her mind to ease with his reply, "House Davis had a daughter first, and her connections were ironclad from the very start. You know, though the family that took me in is not themselves involved in the shipping business, I know that Davis interests are, and France is looking to expand trade. Though the British Ministry is attempting to prove trade is still profitable for them, if House Davis were to make connections with some of the companies of _La Rue de la Magie_ , it would help your government and your house. I could ask my guardian to contact your Head of House if that is something you believe he would agree to."

The train lurches briefly as they begin their journey, causing the Malfoy boy to stumble and Zabini to grin at his misfortune, and then they are off. If the introductions to these yearmates of his are any indication, Harry could be in for a very good year. Almost immediately they begin to discuss which house they hope to join at Hogwarts, though their choice of train car does make that a little obvious in most cases.

* * *

It is as he is disembarking the train in Hogsmeade that Harry next has an opportunity to observe and name some of the students. The crowd flocks to a giant of a man with wild hair and a bushy beard that Harry is half-convinced he could hide in, his rough voice booming out with the call to the first years. There is a girl with hair nearly as bushy as their guide, a book hugged to her chest and her mouth running a mile a minute as she spouts off facts that she has read. She is not immediately recognizable as a part of any prominent family, so for now he ignores her in favor of the boy she is very nearly browbeating with her superior fact-retention. Though he is slightly pudgy and rather timid, it is obvious from his face that he is the son of Frank Longbottom and his wife Alice, both of whom are renowned even in France as exceptional aurors. Their disappearance in 1981 is rumored to be related to Voldemort, though instead of an attack by the Dark Lord, it was an attack of his followers desperate to find him after his downfall.

Not far removed from them stand a set of twins, their Hindu features marking them as the daughters of the relative new-comers to Britain, the Patils. Though in the Isles their family does not have much influence, in India they are one of the major exporters of spices and fabrics, supplying much of the world with the silks that Magical India is very well known for. Perhaps it would be possible and even beneficial to bring them together with Tracey Davis? A consideration for another time.

A loud and rather rude redhead wearing second and third hand robes and a smudge of dirt on his nose is asking vociferously if anyone has seen Harry Potter, Harry Potter was supposed to have been on the train, he needs to find Harry Potter because they are going to be very good friends. From the color of his hair and the state of his clothes, the Boy-Who-Lived assumes him to be a Weasley. Though they are poor and the current patriarch has been placed in a bit of a joke department in the Ministry, they are an old family with a history of ties with the Potters and other Light-minded families. They are unique among those in that faction however in that they also have a history of allying and negotiating with families in the Grey, attempting to win favor, votes, or influence from the neutral votes. It is obvious in that one moment that this boy does not have the political ambition to even begin to live up to that history.

To say that Harry is disappointed in his the results of his appraisal would be a decently large understatement, since he is actually quite upset that Britain has stagnated to the point of very little promise in political endeavors. It isn't until he steps into the boat he is to ride in across the glassy waters of the lake that he catches sight of someone who could very well be a valuable ally to him. Just to his left, a girl with rusty auburn hair slides into the boat the Patil sisters have taken for themselves, her corn-haired friend joining her. The red-haired girl is the one that he is interested in however, the strength of her jaw so reminiscent of the director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement, Amelia Bones. That her brother and his wife were killed during the war is common knowledge, as is the fact that she has a niece who lives with her now, and it seems that he has found her.

The boat ride itself is uneventful and very nearly uninteresting, at least until they round a bend in the shore and are treated to their first look at the castle. The massive stone structure reaches to the skies as if to rip them down, exuding an impression of ancient power and the intelligence of centuries walking through its halls. Something about it calls out to him, a feeling of belonging and purpose attempting to settle into his heart and mind before he shakes them free. The taste of that subtle magic is familiar to him, though he is unsure why or how, and shrugs it off with nary a thought.

The boats bump into the docks below the school and the students disembark, excited whispers buzzing through the air now that they are so close to their destination, eager to be sorted and join the ranks of Hogwarts. Harry can hear a voice accented of Horsforth in the north of England begging anyone who has found a toad to say so, but he cannot pinpoint from whom the distraught supplications originate. It isn't until they are standing in the foyer of the Entrance Hall that he is able to rectify that, purely by dint of having found the toad and following the voice.

As the students around him part, the Boy-Who-Lived comes face to face with the Boy-Who-Bounced and holds up the amphibian in his hand. "I heard you asking if anyone found a toad. I did as a matter of fact, is he yours?" The plump boy stares dumbfounded at this obviously Pureblood boy holding his toad that he doesn't even think before crying "Trevor! Thanks mate, I owe you for that. I'm Neville, Neville Longbottom." One hand takes the toad and the other hangs in the air as he hopes this mysterious scarred boy will take it. It is to the surprise of all around him that Harry replies, "Harry Potter, Longbottom. Pleasure to make your acquaintance, I am told our families were close once. I would welcome the opportunity to make them so again."

The ghosts have already come and gone, noticed by no one and unwilling to intrude on this moment, but the Deputy Headmistress is standing in the open doorway, a faint smile on her lips as she watches and waits. He looks so much like she remembers James looking as a boy, but there are several obvious differences that for now she simply brushes aside. He seems healthy, so perhaps she was wrong about those muggles.

The crowd around the Potter and the Longbottom goes wild, but the most raucous exclamation comes from the gangly boy with the orange hair. "There you are Harry mate! I was looking for you everywhere on the train, thought you might need some help with stuff. I'm Ron by the way, Ron Weasley." In his annoyance at the boy's presumption, Harry forgets to control his temperature when he shakes the offered hand and the Weasley boy yelps in shock. "Bloody hell mate, you're cold as ice! You alright?" The Potter is very relieved when he is rescued before being socially obligated to answer that moronic question by a very closed off Daphne. She doesn't say a word, she simply takes his arm and attempts to lead him away, though the Weasley bellows at her, "Get away from him, snake! Harry doesn't need no dirty evil Slytherins touching him!"

It is then that the forbidding woman in the doorway speaks up so as to avoid losing control of the increasingly volatile first-years. "Welcome to Hogwarts. I am Professor McGonagall, Deputy Headmistress and Transfiguration Professor. In a few moments, we will be going through those doors to have you sorted into your houses. While you are here, your house is your family, and you will be expected to behave accordingly. Any exceptional behavior or displays of aptitude will gain you house points, any rule-breaking and you will instead lose them. Follow me." McGonagall turns on her heel and marches away, obviously expecting to be followed without question.

Harry is astonished by his first look at the Great Hall of Hogwarts, the long tables obviously meant to seat all four houses and the ceiling far above well-enchanted. The Bushy-Haired-One pipes up again with her facts, telling anyone near by authoritatively that the ceiling is meant to mimic the sky outside, a little tidbit she plucked from the pages of Hogwarts: A History. However, what she and her facts cannot explain is why there is a dilapidated old hat sitting on a stool at the front of the hall, at least not until a rip near the brim opens up and it begins to sing in a toneless voice.

 _"Oh you may not think I'm pretty,_

 _But don't judge on what you see,_  
 _I'll eat myself if you can find_  
 _A smarter hat than me._

 _You can keep your bowlers black,_  
 _Your top hats sleek and tall,_  
 _For I'm the Hogwarts Sorting Hat_  
 _And I can cap them all._

 _There's nothing hidden in your head_  
 _The Sorting Hat can't see,_  
 _So try me on and I will tell you_  
 _Where you ought to be._

 _You might belong in Gryffindor,_  
 _Where dwell the brave at heart,_  
 _Their daring, nerve, and chivalry_  
 _Set Gryffindors apart;_

 _You might belong in Hufflepuff,_  
 _Where they are just and loyal,_  
 _Those patient Hufflepuffs are true_  
 _And unafraid of toil;_

 _Or yet in wise old Ravenclaw,_  
 _if you've a ready mind,_  
 _Where those of wit and learning,_  
 _Will always find their kind;_

 _Or perhaps in Slytherin_  
 _You'll make your real friends,_  
 _Those cunning folks use any means_  
 _To achieve their ends._

 _So put me on! Don't be afraid!_  
 _And don't get in a flap!_  
 _You're in safe hands (though I have none)_  
 _For I'm a Thinking Cap!"_

There is silence for several moments following the end of the song, and then thunderous applause. It is as the cacophony dies down that their Deputy unrolls a scroll and begins to call out names. "Abbot, Hannah" has the dirty-blonde friend of the Bones girl stepping forward to take her seat on the stool, the hat falling over her eyes. After several moments, the rip opens and bellows out for all to hear, "HUFFLEPUFF!" A rather squirrel-like girl steps forth when "Brown, Lavender" is called, and she becomes the first Gryffindor. Terry Boot becomes the first Ravenclaw, and Millicent Bulstrode catches Harry's eye as she becomes the first Slytherin of his year. Though she is hefty and appears bullish, he can see a quiet sort of intelligence in her eyes, almost like she is used to hiding it.

Bones joins her friend in Hufflepuff, a Kevin Entwhistle joins the Ravens, notable only because no one reacted to his name, marking him as the first muggleborn to be sorted this year. The know-it-all joins the Lions, her bubbly effusiveness at that news and her joyful exclamation at being in the same house as Albus Dumbledore was summing her up perfectly. She is joined by the Longbottom, a fact that makes Harry a little sad as he is sure he will not be in that house and he has already seen how the school looks at Slytherins. He can also see that the Ravenclaw students are either withdrawn or haughty, the former seeming happy to be left alone the the latter seeming to hold the rest of the school in contempt for some real or imagined fault. All houses obviously look down on the Hufflepuffs, disdaining loyalty and hard work in favor of bravery, knowledge, or supposed cunning.

Daphne joins Davis at the near-silent table of Slytherin, and the rapidly thinning crowd of first-years begins to buzz with excitement. 'Soon it will be my turn' seems to be the general gist of the whispers, though there are a few that are either boasting about where they will go or worriedly speaking of where they would like to go.

Hufflepuff and Ravenclaw trade off new students for a few minutes, each taking a seat and sitting for at least a few seconds before their house is called. When it is the Malfoy Scion stepping forward however, the hat isn't even set on his head before it seems to make a face and bellows out "SLYTHERIN!" The sneer on his face is triumphant and smug, almost as if to say 'Now it's time for me to take my rightful place as leader,' yet the Snakes do not seem enthusiastic about adding him to their number. Greengrass even looks disgusted, her green eyes seeking out his as if to say 'Don't abandon me here.' A few more get sorted, including Theodore Nott, the heir to a family of decent money but little influence. Alain had told him that if he met a Nott, he should attempt to influence him, bring them back to respectable society.

Finally, it is down to the last few students. A rather snooty girl with a face that reminds him of a pug is called forward, apparently the daughter of Edward Parkinson, Lucius Malfoy's most influential supporter. The sycophantic way she was hanging onto Draco during the train ride to Scotland causes Harry to believe that she is attempting to use that alliance to gain his attention and possibly a contract for his hand in marriage, though what she or anyone could see in the self-centered little bugger the Potter will likely never understand. Then it is the moment that apparently the entire school has been waiting for.

"Potter, Harry." At those two simple names, the hall falls silent, an air of anticipation generating an atmosphere so thick that the Boy-Who-Lived can very nearly taste it. All eyes are on the dark-haired boy in the impeccably tailored robes, many of them fixating on the six radiating lines of scarring around his left eye. As the hat descends over the bridge of his nose, the boy wonders to himself what is actually to occur when a voice seems to speak just behind him. _'Well well, what have we here?'_ Only being educated about legillimency and occlumency keeps him from jumping off of the stool and setting the hat on fire, the voice chuckling as it pick up on that thought as well. _'A shame you only know of them eh? Now let me see... Oh you are a puzzle aren't you? Plenty of courage I see, not a bad mind either, and a thirst to prove yourself. Where to put you?'_

Harry smiles just a bit before speaking up in his own mind, _'I think not Gryffindor, if you don't mind. They seem a bit rowdy, and at least one of the first years already has a case of hero worship. I would prefer not to live with that every day.'_ Again the Hat chuckles in his head and speaks in that old and wise voice, _'That is a very brave thing to say, very much part of who they are meant to be. However, I see the honesty in you and think you are correct. That said, there is really only one place to put you now, and it is for the best. You could be great you know, and they will help you on the way to greatness, there's no doubt about that.'_ The Hat bellows out its choice for all the hall to hear, shocking those gathered with the cry of "SLYTHERIN!"

Sweeping the hat off his head, Harry hops off the stool and strides to the table on the far left, the trim of his robes shifting to silver and green and a Slytherin crest appearing over his heart. It is silent for his entire walk, sound only beginning to return once he seats himself between Davis and Greengrass and they applaud politely, if rather happily. The remainder of the Sorting goes by before he notices any of it, and it is only as Blaise sits down across from him that he realizes the feast is about to begin. At the head of the room, an ancient man with flowing white hair and a beard so long he has to tuck it into his cord belt stands and waves his hands. "Welcome all to the start of term feast. A few words before we dig in: Nitwit, blubber, oddment, tweak!" With that, he seats himself again and stares at his plate expectantly, and as if on cue food appears on every table.

Even as life returns to the Slytherin table, Harry is peering at the staff table in order to place names to faces. McGonagall he already knows, having been introduced to her with the other first years after crossing the lake, and the old man must be Albus Dumbledore. There is a tiny man with dark hair and a rather impressive and well groomed mustache who fits the description of Filius Flitwick, a part-goblin duelist who won five years straight on the international stage. Since Hogwarts has no dueling club and he was renowned for his use of charms, it seems likely that he is here as the professor for that class. The dumpy but happy woman is covered in dirt, so she would be the Herbology professor, meaning that she is Pomona Sprout, a magical horticulturist who received a small amount of acclaim when she managed to successfully cross a Venomous Tentacula with a Venus Fly Trap, creating a somewhat intelligent hybrid that was capable of devouring most pest species.

Of the other professors, none hold his interest half so much as the man with the lank, greasy hair, black eyes, and perpetual scowl. He matches the description and the photos of Potion Master Severus Snape, a spell-crafting prodigy with an uncanny knack for potioneering. Though Harry does not know of any original potions to his name, Snape had published several years previous an entire collection of revised potions that simplified the brewing process while simultaneously making them more effective, most noticably the condensed form of the Wiggenweld Potion. Of course, Harry is also aware of reports that Severus and James Potter did not get on well in school, and that it is quite possible that he would continue to hold a grudge for his ill-treatment at the hands of the more popular Gryffindor. The man also happens to now be his Head of House.

* * *

While the Boy-Who-Lived is assessing his professors, Albus Dumbledore looks over at him with a frown on his face. It is very unnerving that Harry should return to Britain so very different than Albus believed he would be. After all, the Chief Warlock had placed him in that muggle house for several reasons. First, he wanted him to be safe from those seeking revenge for their fallen lord, a wise decision as it turned out when Bellatrix Lestrange and her little group of cohorts attacked the Longbottoms. It was a miracle that the Longbottom heir survived that night.

The second reason was that he wanted to protect Harry from his own fame. Dumbledore was aware that Harry himself had done nothing to defeat Voldemort, but the wizarding public would not see it that way. Instead they would laud him as the savior of the wizarding world, and having experienced that himself when he defeated his former lover Gellert Grindelwald, he did not think it would be prudent to allow a young boy to grow up with that level of adulation. For proof bearing that out, he need look no further than the Malfoy boy, who though he is not loved by every wizard and witch in Britain was raised to think himself better than others, something that almost assuredly would have happened had Harry Potter grown up in the magical world.

The third reason was the belief, admittedly a likely erroneous one, that family is absolute. Though he and his brother do not get on well to this day, they are still family and so make the attempt every Christmas to sit down and have one day where Aberforth can set aside the things that Albus has done. It is for those breaks from the weight of his actions that Dumbledore lives. At the time he left young Harry on that doorstep, he believed that simply because he was Lily's son, Petunia would take him in and care for him, setting aside over a decade of resentment of her sister. In retrospect, that was likely not a very accurate assumption purely because of how bitter the woman had become in regards to the magical world, to the point of refusing to go to her own sister's wedding purely because she was a "freak."

When Harry disappeared three years ago, Dumbledore was frantic. All of the monitors that he had for Number 4, Privet Drive had gone dead in unison, which meant that either Harry had died, the wards had fallen, and consequently someone had found him and he had died, or someone had taken him, and he might have ended up dead in that scenario as well. It was with great relief that he learned from the Dursleys that some foreigner had taken Harry before assaulting them and turning them into animals. After looking into their memories with a passive legillimency probe, he learned a more accurate course of the events that occurred. A relatively young man, around the age James would have been were he still alive, had come up to Vernon Dursley and rather curtly asked why he had been beating the boy. The fat muggle's response had been verbally abusive, caustic, and degrading, resulting in his summary transfiguration into a walrus, along with his son becoming a pig and his sneering wife a braying ass.

It had certainly eased his mind to see and recognize Alain Delacour, the Deputy Minister of the French Magical Government, was the one to take Harry from his abusive family. What concerned him was the surcease of all tracking charms he had for the boy's health, which led him to Gringotts to double check with Ragnok nothing untoward had happened to him. After all, while he appeared to be Alain Delacour, there was no guarantee that it wasn't a sympathizer of the Dark Lord under Polyjuice. The goblins with their magical wards and other traps would have seen right through such a ploy. Instead of the marginally helpful reception he had hoped for however, Ragnok froze Albus out of the loop, one chilling remark beating against his brow more than the rest, "You are fortunate that he is mostly unharmed, Dumbledore ManyNames, for to the Nation children are more precious than gold, and he more than most."

To then see this self-assured lad walk into the school looking almost nothing like his parents and in possession of a bearing more befitting royalty, it rankles the Supreme Mugwump. The only familial marker the Headmaster can discern is the messy black hair of the Potter line, the eyes that so defined Lily Evans having disappeared. There was something about this boy that was out of place, but he could feel the same magic that he felt that long-forgotten night nearly ten years ago. This boy is the same one he held in his arms then, telling himself that the choice he was making was the correct one. So why then does he not seem the same?

Once again telling himself that his actions are for the best, Albus reaches out with a passive probe as he has done so often before, intending to skim the surface thoughts and possibly a memory or two, but he meets... nothing. There are no thoughts, and certainly no walls, and fear begins to collect in his mind. What kind of child is capable of such a powerful occlumency technique?

* * *

 **A/N 2:** Okay, here we are at the end of chapter two. I had originally written this out last week, but through a not funny comedy of errors lost all 6000 words. Not wanting to try to write whilst in a funk, I put it off until now. Anyway, here we go! Read, review, ask questions, whatever.

Now obviously, I stated in the Sorting section that Harry knows what Legillimency and Occlumency _are_ , but he is not capable of them. Not in so many words, but the Hat does kind of say that. Harry is not going to be a mind magic savant or anything, that's not what his people are about and I don't want to give him too many advantages over all of creation because dear GODS I hate those stories.

That said, any theories? :D I know we're only two chapters in, but surely some of you have ideas by now, right?


	3. Chapter 3

**Thanks for all the reviews, it makes me so happy to see that this story is being received rather well!**

 **PaC, I wish you had an actual account with , I would love to have replied to your review in a pm. Thanks for your input, that's what we mean when we say we want constructive criticism. I can't thank you enough for reading through the first two chapters and telling me what you think.**

 **Wizmage, yes Harry is a creature(of sorts), or at the very least not human. It really depends on your definition of what a 'creature' entails, but considering the fact that Goblins are considered creatures simply because they are different, and so are Veela, it follows in my mind that Harry would be as well simply for being what he is. As for what he is, that's got to wait. I'm not entirely sure when I'm going to reveal that, but considering his House, it may not be long before his friends figure out that something is not quite right with him and find a way to force him to be honest with them, even if it is only with them.**

 **NnJaD34D, don't worry, L/O skills are not ubiquitous amongst the Purebloods. Harry knows what they are, but cannot use them yet if ever, as he is eleven. He knows what they are because he lives with the Delacours, and I don't agree that just because you are mated to a Veela that automatically makes you immune to their allure. I find it far more likely that Alain learned to focus his mind and block out the allure because he is married to a Veela and works in the government, so can't afford to be a drooling idiot all the time.**

 **Now, minor retcon, courtesy of some assistance from NnJaD34D, Harry's wand wood is going to be oak. I have already gone and changed the segment in chapter 1 where his wand is made, so don't worry about there being conflicting information. The reason for the retcon is because when I was researching woods, madrone was a wood for knowledge and intuition, and I couldn't find another more 'normal' wood that fit that description. My reviewer went and found one that fit decently well, and so I am changing it to be less unusual, as both they and myself dislike the overplayed cliche of Harry's non-canon wand being created from all sorts of exotic, never-before-heard-of materials.**

 **Oh, and one more thing. There will not be any Ancient Arts lost to time, or combining of species-specific magic/enchanting with wizarding runes to make machines work, or anything like that. What there _will_ be is the racial magic of Harry's people, something that is far more subtle than big blasts of power or anything like that.**

* * *

 _September 2, 1991_

The morning sun is painfully bright to Albus, moreso than usual as he did not manage to sleep at all during the night. The reason for his ill comfort is a simple one, and easily given name and form to. Harry Potter is... wrong. There is something about him that is not as it should be, and Albus cannot place a finger on it. Pondering the Child of Prophecy once more also brings to the forefront of his thoughts a conversation he had with the Hat the evening before, wherein he asked what the Thinking Cap could tell him about the child. The words that followed both set his mind at ease and disturbed him greatly.

 _"I know what you are most worried about Albus, I can hear it niggling at your nerves. The Potter boy is not an Occlumens, not in the slightest, his gift is of an entirely different nature. The issue you are running afoul of is simply one that requires you to come at it from another direction, a different way of looking at things. You know that I cannot tell you exactly what your issue is, but I am sure that in time you shall figure it out. Suffice it to say, once you have your answer, it shall reshape the way in which you look at the world."_

Albus is pleased in remembering that there is not some preternatural skill in the Mind Arts to be found in Harry, something that he is sure the young Slytherin is much to young to be concerned with. It is concerning that the Hat could not tell him more, but that is the way of it and the Headmaster is aware of the need to learn such things on one's own. The quality of the knowledge is greatly enhanced in the finding, as is the value of the answer you find, a notion that he does his best to pass on to the students under his charge. That thought places a smile on his aged face, twinkling blue eyes crinkling in fondness for the joys of his position. Perhaps it is high time he had a student present who _could_ remind him of the very things he has sought to teach generations during his tenure as an educator. It would not do to dwell on the past and rest on laurels after all, and one is never too old to learn new things.

 _'Thank you Harry. You have reminded me of why I do this, simply by being here. I look forward to seeing how else you may shape the world.'_

What is most bothersome however is that Harry is so much different from his expectations. While the Hat has allayed his fears of his mind, to an extent at least, there are other things that concern him. His sorting is not so important, though his easy interactions with some of his new house do at least bear observation. No, it is the physical aspects that worry Albus, his eyes in particular. Where the night of his parents' death they were a lambent emerald green, now they are a blue of the palest and coldest persuasion, bringing to mind clear and flawless ice rather than perfect gemstones. Add to that the somewhat _sharper_ features than you would expect in a boy of eleven, and there seems to be something about the boy that defies all reason.

 _'Harry my lad, what has happened to you?'_

Perhaps it would be best to see what occurs over the next few days, and then summon him for a meeting to get a better measure of him. Yes, that is what he should do. In fact, that is what he _will_ do, and having come to this determination, Albus stands from his comfy chair and strides from his chambers with a stately and aged grace.

* * *

Harry shifts slightly as he remains bent over his desk, reading the words as they appear on the page of his journal with a smile. Every morning for the last week, he has woken up to this ritual, reading Fleur's report on the previous day and telling her anything that seems important in his turn. Today is no different.

 _Good morning Harry, I hope you slept well. I have been here a week, and not being able to wake you up like I do when we are at home is breaking my heart a little more every day, but just being able to converse with you in this way helps fix that a bit. I still miss you horribly, but at least we have this, no?_

 _Yesterday I know was your sorting, so today will be your first full day of classes. I don't actually have all that much to say this morning, but I want to hear all about what happened yesterday, who you met and what you thought and what you saw and... everything! I don't have classes for another hour, and since I am told that your classes start at the same time, that means you have an hour to tell me all of it, and then an hour to eat before you have to go to your own classes. So start spilling it out Blizzard!_

With no desire to withhold anything from her, Harry grins and begins to write in the French that he is more comfortable with than English now, having written only the one language for the last three years.

 _As you wish, Snapdragon. It all started at the platform, of course. Your sister was throwing her usual histrionics, and it was adorable, but it was Eveline who surprised me. There was something in the way she spoke that told me she feels more than a little distraught that I am not at home any longer. Also, she took it upon herself to make it quite clear that if you were not sequestered away in that over-sized mansion in... wherever Beauxbatons is, you would have been on that platform giving me a send off, and she suggested perhaps you would have been more than a little passionate in doing so. Personally, I have no idea what she was thinking of._

 _I stepped onto the train and was prepared to find a quiet cabin to hide away in, but instead found myself standing in an entirely quiet car! Imagine my surprise when I found it to be in shades of green and silver, along with housing some of the very same heirs that Alain told me I might encounter. You know, thinking of them in terms of names and businesses hardly did them justice I found._

 _For one, Daphne Greengrass is no ice queen, just an incredibly reserved and intelligent girl who has been so unlucky as to only ever have the one friend. That friend is Tracey Davis, coincidentally, heir to the Davis concern and such, but a singularly witty and mischievous little sprite. Both are every bit as brilliant as you are, though not as terribly breathtaking in personage. However, not every meeting was as friendly or entertaining as theirs._

 _I was unfortunate enough to have a run-in with the Malfoy scion at the same time, and in under thirty seconds he had managed to wear out his rather reluctant welcome. In one arrogant monologue, he managed to convey a contempt for anyone not named Malfoy, a disgust of anyone or anything he deems less than perfectly proper and likely human, and an arrogance distasteful in those of much higher station and much greater importance. In short, he is a perfectly slimy little git, and I am ashamed that he and I share a house._

 _I also had the great pleasure to meet Neville Longbottom. I didn't want to say anything, just in case it scared him off, but meeting my godbrother was... well I wouldn't say perfect as he has the confidence of wilty flowers, but it was still nice. And yes, I see him as my godbrother, because that is what he would have been if I really were the son of the house of Potter. Shut it, Snap._

 _Anyway, others I recognized were the Patil twins, the youngest son of Weasley, Amelia Bones' niece, and of course Blaise was present as well, as much as he ever is. Quiet and watchful, just as expected. He was a little more vocal at dinner though, so not everyone believes he is mute like little Gabby did._

 _Anyway, Slytherin like we thought I'd be, and I have to say that I like our common room, though the password is rather snooty. The common room though is rather like a Hobbit-hole, all cozy architecture and dark polished woods. We even have a round door! I feel it's probably better than being in the Ravenclaw tower or the Gryffindor tower. Hufflepuff, as I understand it, is down by the kitchens though, so I think they might have the best positioning in terms of meals. Late night snack runs as well, I suppose._

 _And speaking of meals, I really should go to breakfast. I'll write you later, Fleur._

Harry breathes a slight sigh as he sets his quill aside, wishing that instead of writing it out for her, he could say it all to her face, if only so that he could see the light dancing in her eyes and the shape of her smile. These last three years have shown him what true happiness is, and yet there is still so much he has to learn. What is this desire to be near her? Why is it that the world only seems to be right when she smiles, or when she laughs? And more importantly, what is that look in her eyes that seems equal parts happiness and fear?

* * *

In her dorm room nearly two thousand kilometers away, a fourteen year old part-Veela is laying curled up in her bed with a senseless grin on her face, reading as the boy she will only admit to herself she has feelings for writes about his first day in the world of Hogwarts. Of course, it never hurts when he calls her Snapdragon, having been immensely proud when he came up with a nickname that "captured her fiery personality and the beauty of her person." She is sure that he didn't realize at the time the simple enormity of the compliment he was paying her, after all he was only ten at the time and couldn't have been expected to understand how those words would play with her thirteen year old heart.

That he teases her now and then seems normal, considering that is what they do. To read then that her mother was suggesting she would have done more than give him a hug and a farewell... Fleur's face begins to heat up as her thoughts devolve into scenes out of stolen romance books her roommates have snuck into the school. In her mind, she is standing on the platform, arms around the dark-haired boy and reveling in the slight chill of his skin. The first whistle sounds to signal five minutes to departure, so she looks up to say goodbye only to find that he is closer than she expected and her lips brush against his. The world stops in that moment, the tingle of his breath sending shivers all over, and then she slips her fingers into his hair, pulling him closer and engaging his lips in their first real kiss.

The Veela's face is brilliantly scarlet and her mixture of embarassment, mortification, and desire is causing the air around her to shimmer with heat as her temperature slips higher and higher, her journal all but forgotten for the moment. It is with great difficulty that she reins in her wild imaginings and teenage hormones to continue reading her 'report'. To then read the first two people mentioned were both female, intelligent, and witty almost sends them soaring again, though for different reasons. Though he says they aren't as beautiful as she is, she is well aware that she could be considered inhumanly attractive, so most girls _would_ be less so than she. A twisting, unreasoning feeling settles in her heart for a few brief moments, tinging the world in hues of pink and scarlet before she can root it out.

 _'Was that jealousy? I... I've never been jealous of anyone else before. And why should I be, I am beautiful, I am strong, I am Veela. I have a wonderful family, and I have made a friend of Harry Potter where no one else even tried before me. Jealousy is ridiculous for me. So why did I feel it then, when he mentioned those harlots, vicious backstabbing little harpies that want to get their talons into what is mine, ugly pig-faced... oh my.'_

Her face red for an entirely different reason now, though the mortification is still there, Fleur reads on. Though he says nothing of substance about the Malfoy boy, he still manages to make it perfectly clear that he is a vile little boy whom he shall not be extending overtures of friendship towards. That he is forced to share a house with him is intriguing, though perhaps not unexpected if what they have heard about the Malfoy line holds true and he was placed in Slytherin.

The meeting with the Longbottom boy, Neville apparently, gives her a faint smile. 'Confidence of wilty flowers' does little to recommend him, but if Harry thinks it is worth his time then so be it. Perhaps he can bring the boy out of that mindset and get him to buck up a bit? If there is anything her Harry can do, it is inspire people. She giggles lightly and is slowly returning to her happy place as she observes his neat handwriting, the product of her mother sitting with him for hours and encouraging him to continue practicing until it was perfect. It is the way he curves the 's' in 'Snapdragon' that really tugs at her heart and makes her smile...

The brief listing of others who could be considered noteworthy shows the end of his patience for politics and agendas, especially since immediately after he begins describing the common room of Slytherin. His love of Tolkien's work shows once more when he compares the dungeon rooms to a Hobbit hole, turning a rather depressing thought into a homey and warm image. That he prefers it to being in a tower doesn't surprise her, since he does not have much love of being stacked up like a house of cards, and it is just another piece of normalcy that she has been missing.

Her fingers stroke the page as he signs off, lingering over the flowing strokes of the quill that spell out her name. With so much care in those five letters, it is the most beautiful spelling of her name she has ever seen. That he only writes her true name once a day makes it more precious to her than anything else, and she treasures each and every one. With one last long sigh, she shuts the journal and sets it on her bedside table, making sure to set her binding charm over it just in case, and hurries off to her first class, bag sliding over her shoulder as she snags it in stride.

* * *

It is with some trepidation that Harry steps into his first official Charms lesson. It isn't so much that he is nervous to learn magic, nor is it that he is wary of the teacher, but instead that he is leery of the fame that is attached to his name and how people have been reacting to it since he stepped foot in the school. Everywhere he goes, whispers follow him, and with his ears he is able to pick out the basic gist of it all. Most seem fixated on his identity, but there are those in all three of the other houses that look at him with a mix of fear, mistrust, and even open hatred.

To then see upon his entrance into the classroom a frantically waving pudgy brown-haired boy with a loony grin on his face sets him at once at ease and more on edge. He smiles easily as he glides across the floor to Neville, Daphne at his shoulder and Tracey not far behind, ignoring the glares from some and the quiet sniff from the dark-haired diva walking with him. A quick glance over his shoulder even alerts him that perhaps not all Slytherins buy into the rivalry with Gryffindor, as Tracey is pointedly staring anywhere but at the scarlet and gold wearing boy, a pink hue on her cheeks.

"Good morning Neville, and please forgive Greengrass her pride, she is paying too much attention to the rumors that you are little more than a lucky squib." He notes the look of shame in his godbrother's eyes, and with a clap on the shoulder he leans closer and speaks only to him, "Neville, you are the son of Frank and Alice Longbottom, two of the best Aurors the British Ministry ever had. From what Monsieur Delacour has found in reports of the attack, you were in the room with them when it happened. That is a terrible thing to happen to anyone, but for both of us to be with our parents when they were attacked, it is a miracle we are not too afraid to use magic."

In Neville's hands is a well-worn wand, about ten inches of white pine. The feeling of purity that Harry can sense makes him think of unicorns, so he assumes that the core is the tail hair of that magnificent breed. However, he can sense that the wand is reluctant with Neville, as though it does not trust him. "Nev, that is not your wand, is it? Whose was it?"

With shame, the brunette looks down and answers softly, " My dad's. Gran reckons that I'll do 'im proud if I use his wand, but it doesn't like me. I-it fights me, even to just channel a little bit of magic, you know, to prove I have any. I-I've gotten a couple sparks, but..."

Harry squeezes his shoulder gently and pulls out his own wand, eleven inches of oak carved in reliefs of snow and ice. With a wave, white snow seems to fall around them, melting before it touches anything and drawing a few gasps from those assembled, including a hidden half-goblin. "Nothing like that, hm? I think you should write your gran, remind her that wands choose their bearer, and your Da's didn't choose you. If you think it will help, tell her about what I just did with my own wand, make it sound like everyone with a properly matched wand can do that." With a grin, he looks the Gryffindor in the eye and says, "Make sure she can see how much you want to be able to make your parents proud, and I'm sure she'll relent and take you soon to get your own. I mean, it probably won't be immediate, but perhaps over the Christmas holidays, no?"

A moment later, a sly and vaguely amused voice rings out, "Longbottom, ten points to Gryffindor for reaching across House lines. Potter, ten points to Slytherin for encouraging a fellow student, regardless of House." Both boys look to the head of the class to see a tiny man with a rather large dark mustache and a well-groomed mop to match standing on a desk. With all of the attention in the room shifting to him, he opens his mouth to speak, sharp fangs glinting in the morning light, "I am the Charms professor, Filius Flitwick. As I'm sure you all know, we have Harry Potter in this class. I can guess that he would like to be treated as anyone else would be, so allow that, and I suggest most of you follow his example. Reach across the House divide, make friends. The more open you are, the easier the magic we learn in this class will be. Now, let's put names to those faces!"

With a clap of his hands, Professor Flitwick begins to call role, making small tick marks next to the names of those who are already doing as he suggested and moving to sit next to someone of a different house. Of particular interest to him is that Greengrass and Davis have apparently allowed a Muggleborn to join them, miss Hermione Granger almost immediately being absorbed into conversation with the green-eyed girl. Not everyone is taking the advice to heart, most obvious among them the Malfoy boy and his two cohorts Crabbe and Goyle. For some it seems to be fear, as is the case with Brown, Patil, and to some extent Weasley, and for others it is simply inconvenience, as seems to be the case with Zabini and Nott. In any case, it is a promising start and already Longbottom looks a little more confident, just by having Potter with him and talking to him.

* * *

The other classes had nothing of much importance happen, though again a Slytherin and a Gryffindor were given points for cooperation in the course of classwork, though this time it was Davis and Granger, an amused Daphne watching from the side with a faint smile on her lips as her friend is called out and rewarded in front of the class by the Gryffindor Head of House.

When Friday rolls around, there is an anticipation in the air again, a nervous vibe that runs through the Slytherin and Gryffindor contingents. Today is the their first Potions class, and the general image of the Slytherin Head of House is a swooping bat who is known in every other House to play favorites. Add to that his general dislike and strong grudge against Gryffindor, and there is a powder keg set to blow in the dungeons, waiting for the slightest spark.

Malfoy chooses to act for the first time since the Welcoming Feast while standing outside of the Potions classroom, trusting in his godfather to protect him from any repercussions that his lackeys cannot handle. "Hey Longbottom, better be careful! I hear Potions can be difficult for _real_ witches and wizards, I hate to think what will happen with a squib like you!" A few guffaws come from Crabbe and Goyle, a faint snicker from Pansy, but no one else is laughing. Almost as one, the Slytherin first years step away from Draco and leave him standing there with the two thickest boys he could have found still standing behind him, while in front of him is a Harry Potter that he has not yet seen.

Harry is glaring at him with such venom that he could swear there was snow drifting in his eyes, and frost is visibly riming the floor around the taller dark haired boy. In his anger, his slight French accent is stronger and more pronounced, though his words are as understandable as ever. "I would be more careful what you say, Meester Malfoy. You never know 'oo will take offense, n'est-ce pas? Zat is my godbrother you are speaking to, and I do not appreciate your crude and rude comments. Take zem back."

The door to the classroom opens silently and Severus Snape stands in the doorway, watching and waiting for an opportunity to punish the spawn of Potter, though not in such a way as will require him to take points from his own house. His godson's next words are almost enough to make him bury his head in his hands however, as he has been listening to the entire exchange. "Oh yeah, and what are you going to do if I don't then? What _can_ you do, Scarhead?"

If he wasn't paying attention, Severus would have sworn that the hallway simply froze on its own, but he'd been watching Potter and in that moment his eyes went white from corner to corner and his skin paled further till it was a faint blue for two, maybe three heartbeats. The rush of frost that covered the floor, walls, and part of the ceiling, speak to a strength and control that he would not have willingly believed anyone born to the name Potter would bear. The words accompanying that rush of wild magic are what are truly cold, however.

"If you do not take back your words and apologize to my godbrother, then I will see to it personally that not only does our 'Ead of 'Ouse know of your petty bullying, whether 'e bears a grudge against Gryffindor or not, but I will also find a way to give you frostbite in a most uncomfortable place and ensure that even Madame Pomfrey will 'ave difficulty reversing it. 'Ave I made myself clear, Malfoy?" Before his godson can shove his foot down his throat and bring about a condition that he himself is having very little difficulty believing would come to pass, Severus speaks in his sibilant voice, "Potter, I would watch my tongue were I you. You never know whom could be listening." Turning to the blonde grinning triumphantly, he speaks again, "Mister Malfoy, you will apologize to Longbottom, as galling as it is, and then you shall be serving detention with me. Tonight, eight o'clock, do not be late."

Having nothing further to say, he sweeps into the classroom and leaves the door open, obviously expecting to be followed inside. As the students take their seats, a look of surprise can be found on the professor's face. Daphne is sharing workspace with Hermione Granger, Tracey is sitting and gossiping with Parvati Patil, Longbottom and Potter are of course seated together, and the rest of the class barring a very conspicuous few are also pairing up across the divide. Needing a moment to shake off the odd creeping sensation he is getting, Snape calls role and takes note of who answers to which name, also judging them by their work station setup and eagerness. A few surprise him, like the Granger girl whom he had heard was a dreadful know-it-all, and yet appears no more interested in being recognized than most others. Potter of course receives the most scrutiny, but he barely blinks and does nothing to preen when his name is called.

Still wishing to bring him down a peg and humiliate him as his father did Snape so many times, the bitter man calls out, "Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?" Those unnerving blue eyes stare at him in silence for a moment, during which he sees Granger's hand twitch before Greengrass snatches it to keep it still. Thinking he has won, he is about to deride him and ask another 'easier' question when, "You would get a sleeping potion so powerful they call it the Draught of Living Death. However, I get the impression you have a bitter regret that followed someone important to you to the grave, no?"

 _'Too smart and well read for your own good, Potter. You weren't supposed to catch that, even if you did get the potion correct.'_ With a snarl, Severus asks again, "Where would you look if I asked you to find me a bezoar?" Not even a moment's hesitation this time before that calm voice replies, "Stomach of a goat." There is no exposition on what a bezoar does, no lording of greater knowledge this time, no needling of him, further proving that the brat is too smart for his own good. Severus had planned to ask a truly simple question about monk's hood and wolfsbane, but not now. Now his desire to humiliate the spawn of Potter who is, in his mind, showing him up is too great and he pulls a question from third year.

"Potter, for what potion are fairy wings used for?" For a moment, the temperature in the dungeon classroom plummets and there seem to be whispering voices from all around, then it is if nothing happened. Potter's glare is icy, but not overly so and certainly nothing similar to what he witnessed in the hallway. His voice quiet and measured, the boy even manages to answer his final question, reminding him rather much of Lily when he knew her. "Fairy wings are used in the first step of both the Girding Potion and the Beautification Potion. The Girding Potion increases the imbiber's endurance, and as you are well aware Professor is a third year potion in every curriculum in Europe. The Beautification Potion is used to enhance the imbiber's attractiveness, and was pioneered for mainstream use in the early to mid nineteenth century. It is not taught in the curriculum of any school under NEWT level."

There is a bitter, foul taste on his tongue after he has to swallow his pride, but Severus has to admit that perhaps, just perhaps, Potter is less his father's son and closer to his mother, as he seems to have her temper, her intelligence, and even her wit. The fact that his eyes are blue is unfortunate, but it lessens his resemblance to his wretched father as well, so it isn't entirely a bad thing. Perhaps, for one year at least, he should observe the boy and judge him on his own. Though he is yet unaware of it, Severus is already allowing for House pride to color his perceptions a little and softening towards the boy. Now as his first real test, can he keep Longbottom from being a threat to himself and everyone else in the class?


End file.
